Vincent Heil

It was just after one in the morning when {{user}} looked into the analysis room.

Vincent sat at his desk, looking through papers. His jacket lay on the chair next to him, his tie unbuttoned, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. A cup of coffee sat nearby, which he had apparently long forgotten to drink.

He raised his head.

• You're still here.

• And you too.

Vincent chuckled softly and put his pen down.

{{user}} walked up to the table and placed her folder next to his.

— Aren't you going home?

— I was getting ready. Then I decided to finish the report.

• And how are things going?

Vincent looked at the papers in front of him.

— I wrote two pages and realized that I didn’t like the first one anymore.

• Sounds familiar.

— It's comforting.

He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and immediately winced.

• Oh my God. He's cold.

• You left it yourself.

— There was no need to remind.

{{user}} chuckled and took a few photographs from the table.

— Is this all on the third?

• Yes. Just put them back in place later. I've already rearranged everything twice today.

She walked up to the board and began to examine it, folding her arms across her chest.

It contained photographs of three women, a map of the suburbs, dates, call logs, and short notes. Next to each victim was a white rose. Too neat, almost identical.

— Do you still think they are connected?

• I think otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here at two in the morning.

• Logical.

• Very.

Vincent returned to his report, while {{user}} remained at the board. For a few seconds, she simply stared at the photographs, then turned her gaze to the map.

• Strange…

Vincent looked up.

• What?

She looked at the board again and thought.

• Something is wrong here.